Country Fried Hockey Pucks

 if you’re on a quest to find the worst processed pucks this side of the mountains, I believe I know where they might be found. I don’t want to give away the exact location, but it is probably residing…still deteriorating…in that oasis of fine cuisine known as "the other Ohio." This pocket of foothill cuisine is best known for the birthplace of Bob Evans' Sausage Spaghetti and the local delight, "The Breakfast Mess." 

It was in this neck of the woods that I found the worst food ever invented. In a household of five poverty-rich students, we pooled our meager resources to fix a weekday dinner. It was up to one of us to go get the food at the store and bring back what was on the list.

Now, we were relatively poor, but when we had more money, we'd order food like Super beef Hoagies, Fried Chicken, and Gyros. So, when you're a college student, living in a one-pot-pissing run-down residence, with an out-of-town landlord...and you're feasting on ramen, hot dogs, and Rosebud Margarine...a chance to find an affordable frozen breaded meat was an upgrade over the ramen regime.

So that one Wednesday afternoon, I sent a housemate, with the money and the list, to the grocery store down the street to find some beer-battered fish and fries.

My housemate returned with tartar sauce, chips, and a box of what I thought were Mrs. Paul's Fish Sticks. When I turned over the box, I discovered "Mr. Fritter."

The worst chicken sandwich I have ever had, “Mister Fritter,” a now extinct prepared pre-frozen patty, resembled a country fried hockey puck with a sledgehammer-like hint of fish.

While baking, the fritter emitted such an odoriferous fog of stench from the cavern-oven, that I hurried to get everything else ready before they were done.

On my first attempt to sample one, I bit into it, but it was so hot, it fell out of my mouth onto the floor.

On my second attempt, I discovered a spoiled-fish-like coating with a hint of aluminum pan. After painfully retching…I ordered the items dispersed in the back yard in order to keep the cockroaches, mice, and other vermin away from the house. After several days, they remained untouched by weather or critter, and the potent breaded grease pucks remained unchanged.

When the chicken patties refused to deteriorate, we hid them deep within a trash bag and sent them to patty hell, otherwise known as the county dump. 

Knowing what I know now...if I were a betting man, I would bet that they are still there, years after disposal, unchanged and unfettered. Long live Mister Fritter!

 

Stoner Dogs Never Walk Alone

 it was long and narrow, but wide enough for a counter, and a decent donut display case. Behind that customer counter, we had to maneuver through a narrow walkway between a hot dog bath with hot dog sauce and hot nacho cheese containers near the side wall. A lone "flurry" machine made the counter area much more treacherous, until it opened up near the sparse seating area. 

There were a handful of tables near the back of the retail area. This is where I found Megan, a girl drunk as could be, sitting with her legs up showing the world her white underwear. I left my place and sat on the opposite bench to talk sense into her.

She was a young blonde freshman, not the most beautiful in the world, and seemed to suspect it. How she was still vertical was a mystery, and I even encouraged her to rest, put your head on the table talk...assuring her that I could walk her home when I got off my shift. 

But somewhere in the night, she disappeared. A quirky young man dropped in to ask about her whereabouts. I walked out into the street with him, feeling like I had lost my little sister. She was invisible beyond the streetlights, and I had to go back in and finish my shift.

Another night she came in, all smiles, and at least slightly inebriated. Most of our customers were, especially after midnight, as many left the bars to come in a for "stoner dog."

When you're drunk, you'll eat anything, including a footlong hotdog, loaded with sauce, onions, and jalapenos. The latter were so potent smelling, it was a wonder they did not get up and walk away. For the compromised, the modus operandi was to order food meant to relieve your inside of all the beer you drank. And many did, and many found relief, often just beyond the business sign out in the street.

It is not the most romantic thing, watching an 18-year girl vomit into the gutter. Nor is it sexy to offer your arm and stability to walk the lass, smelling of beer and jalapeños to her dorm at 4 o'clock in the morning.

The weekends followed, but I rarely saw her inebriated again. Her friend approached me in the street, in the donut shop, and even in the theatre to ask about her. I rarely saw her. I began to wonder if she "flunked out," went home, and forgot about college. 

So many did. So many could not cope with the oncoming lights of the big bad world beyond college. That short time between childhood and paying for everything narrowed with every new month. 

The donut shop was a lamppost in that half-light. A refuge from the storm. A place where even the drunkest of characters could share in some stability...where no one would be alone.

  

fresh from your neighborhood

 When you’re four years old, an upset tummy can make the world feel like an out-of-control merry-go-round. But when you’re in your older years, a troublesome bloated tummy can make you feel like you swallowed a small elephant…

So, I sit here waiting for it to subside and wonder what caused this dispepsive state. Was it breakfast, served hot and fresh, according to the lighted menu board…or, was it the coagulation of fat from my veal parmigiana with feta and linguini in a light sun-dried tomato pesto? Or, was it a tapeworm, hiding in infantile form, microscopic and miniscule? 

And if it was a tapeworm, does it have a personality? Is it religious? Does it prefer frying in butter or beef tallow? More importantly, does it have a girlfriend? Or is it a girlfriend? Could it be just one in a plague of streaming tapeworms cascading through the recreational rides of my colon? God help me, maybe I have a whole colony down there. Maybe they’re having a particulate party…maybe I should go to the bathroom to wait for the consequences...maybe I should write my will and consider a lawyer. After all, if I do have a tapeworm invasion, it’s only a matter of…and what if they have a well-funded building program?

Should I try a celery-scented colon cleanse? A blueberry enema? A fixed probiotic diet? Should I become a fruititarian, swearing off all highly oxalated greens? Engage in the holy act of carnivore, with a side of four eggs at every meal? What say you, Bobby Kennedy?

It is no wonder why my gut...and maybe your gut...is kind of like a washing machine on the spin cycle. all those vegetables piled high on crates in the regional distribution center have more miles on them than a four-time divorcee. They've been sitting around for weeks and weeks, far from their source of origin. 

They've had time to decay, like the fish I smell in most restaurants, thousands of miles inland from the ocean, meat decaying so rapidly the owner knows your meal has more in common with Russian roulette than a fresh meal. Like a run-on sentence, the after-effects will go on and on and on...

Have you ever tasted fresh fish...from the morning's catch? If you have, you may never eat a farm-raised fish the rest of your life. 

Have you ever tasted fresh cider? You may never drink canned apple juice again.

And you may never have a sick stomach again....if you choose what is fresh from the fields, fresh from the ocean, and most importantly, fresh from your neighborhood.